


His sister says so

by otherhawk



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Drug Abuse, Hurt No Comfort, Klaus Hargreeves Needs A Hug, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Non-Graphic Violence, Pre-Canon, Prostitution, Then bad things happen, Vanya's book, Whump, klaus starts off having a good day, none of this is vanya's fault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:01:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21564187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherhawk/pseuds/otherhawk
Summary: Klaus reads Vanya's book in rehab, but that's not how he found out she'd written it.
Comments: 20
Kudos: 300





	His sister says so

**Author's Note:**

> I had some free time and decided to watch The Umbrella Academy because I missed it when it came out. I didn't expect to be quite so drawn in.

It was nice watching the sunset through the crack in the roof, Klaus decided eventually, as the sky faded into a dusky orange. If he squinted then it was like having a skylight or something. He could even watch the stars through it, if it wasn’t for all the light pollution that was. It never really got dark enough in the city to actually see the stars, and that was sehr gut. God bless light pollution, even if it might be nice to go star watching. Star watching. Watching the stars. That was a bit funny, wasn’t it? Watching the stars like they might be up to something suspicious. Maybe they were, what would he know about it? Luther was the one who’d always liked talking about space stuff. Klaus had liked listening to him liking talking about space stuff though. It was a good distraction from the ghosts. ( _And Luther smiled. He didn’t do that often_.)

He took a long drag from his joint and breathed out and the smoke slowly drifted across the crack, blocking out the last of the sunlight. Boo. Pollution again. What part did smoking play in the whole global warming thing? Had to be something. Pogo had once shown him a whole slide show’s worth of pictures of what smoking would do to his lungs; it was bound to be bad for the environment as well. Still, it had to be less damaging than a car, right? And he didn’t have a car, so surely that meant that he could smoke more than he already did, karmically speaking. Maybe he should stick to edibles instead.

“I mean, if you think about it,” he told Ben, who was sitting on the crumbling window ledge in a way that was only remotely safe because ghosts didn’t actually weigh anything, “No car, no heating, no air con, recycled food and clothes…my lifestyle is practically saving the world here. Do you think dear Dad would be proud?”

“Nope,” Ben said, popping the ‘p’ just enough to be obnoxious.

“Rude,” he sulked. Fair, but rude. “I’m thinking breakfast, are you thinking breakfast? Somewhere there’s a plate of French toast with my name on it. Oh, and those little blue things, the berries, what are they called again?”

“Blueberries,” Ben told him, which was just boring, really, Klaus could definitely think of a better name for them than that. “I will never understand your obsession with breakfast food.”

He was almost standing up, but he had to twist round to look at his brother, because really? “Because it isn’t just oatmeal, Benny. There’s things that aren’t oatmeal. I don’t know what else to say.”

“Sure.” Ben ducked his head beneath his hood, almost hiding the bitter twist of a smile. “Non-oatmeal breakfast. I’ll add that to the list of things I wish I’d got to experience when I was alive.”

Ouch. No, bad. Klaus tried to jam his hands into his pockets but he wasn’t wearing pants, so he just flapped goodbye at Ben helplessly. “Yes, yes, back when you were alive you had to walk four hours uphill both ways through the snow just to get some OJ.” He blinked. “Actually, that sounds exactly like something Dad would have made us do.”

“Walk?” Ben scoffed. “Reggie would have had us run. Come on, let’s get you some food.”

He threw some clothes on and wandered out of his room and downstairs, only pausing long enough to wrap a length of chain round his door handle. He’d lost the padlock a few days ago, so it wasn’t going to do shit in terms of security, but hey, it was the thought that counted, right? Besides so far this place had been pretty secure. Surprisingly few thieves for a squat filled with junkies, mostly he was alright just leaving his stuff in his room – not his stash, maybe, or his dry sock collection, but that was forgivable. He was pretty certain that someone would need to be _dead_ not to try and steal those if the opportunity presented itself. Huh. Maybe that would be a good test if he ever found himself unsure if someone was a ghost or not. He could throw a sock at them and see if they picked it up. Except suppose they weren’t dead, and they did pick it up? Then he’d be down a sock. “No, scrap that, terrible idea, what were you even thinking?” he mumbled to himself, and Pam flinched as he walked past, her ragged nails digging deep into her arms. “Not you, cara mia, your ideas are as beautiful as your soul,” he called back to her over his shoulder, and Ben rolled his eyes, and then they were outside and his breath was hanging in the air as clear as the smoke had been earlier. Fuck.

“Cold?” Ben asked, as he stamped his feet and crammed his hands deep into the tiny pockets of his skinny jeans. He didn’t bother answering. Obviously he was cold, it was…some month. Winter. “Come on, the diner’s just up the street. French toast, remember?”

French toast, sure. Or, and here was another option, he could walk a little further in the opposite direction and find Jesse behind the pawn shop, and for the same amount of money and a winning smile he could get enough heroin that he’d stay warm for the rest of the night.

“Klaus,” Ben said, like he knew exactly what he was thinking which, maybe he did? Diego had two powers, his throwing thing, and his holding-his-breath-for-a-really-long-time thing, which Klaus would have killed for a time or two, come to think of it, if it wasn’t for the fact that killing led to death led to ghosts led to no. But yeah, maybe Ben had the Horror and mindreading. He’d never mentioned it, but Klaus wasn’t so sure that if he could read minds he would tell anyone either. It’d probably be more fun not to. ‘ _Hey, Ben_ ’, he thought experimentally. ‘ _Can you hear me_?’

“Klaus!” Ben said again, and really, if he was going to show off his mind reading act, he’d need to say something more impressive than that. Like say what number Klaus was thinking of. ( _You’d think it would be 69, but it wasn’t. It was zero, most of the time, except for sometimes late at night when it was Five._ ) “Can we go to the diner now? Please?”

Klaus caved immediately and started walking towards the diner, his brother silent at his side. Ben didn’t often say please. Just every now and then. ( _“Please don’t get in that car with him.” “Please put the needle down.” “Please step back from the edge._ ”) Klaus had never said no when Ben said please, but they both knew it was only a matter of time.

But he was supposed to be cleaning up his act a bit these days. Not enough to be a brother to be proud of, but maybe enough not to be something to be ashamed of. Oh, he wasn’t sober, not by a long shot – he was only a masochist when he was getting paid for it, thank you very much – but he’d cut out the harder stuff. For the last few months it was weed and benzos only for him, with maybe a little molly on the weekends and federal holidays. Enough to keep him flying over the storm of ghosts and trauma but not so much that it became an all-consuming need. He could do things now that weren’t about drugs, or trying to get enough money for drugs. He wasn’t quite sure yet what those things should be, but in the meantime he had an almost-intact roof over his head, he was eating every day, and he’d even gone with Ben to see Allison’s latest movie. ( _It was terrible. Not her, she was great, but the rest was just, ugh. Who’d put Chris Evans in that outfit? There should be a law_.) He even had an unofficial sort-of-job, loading and unloading boxes of knock-off electronics in a warehouse down near the shipping yard. All under-the-table, cash-in-hand, shady-as-all-fuck, but he turned up four nights a week, they gave him money, he stayed warm overnight doing manual labour, and he hadn’t screwed up so much that they’d told him not to come back, or shot him or whatever, so yeah. He was calling it a job.

He spread his arms wide and twirled round, beaming at Ben. “I’m practically a functional member of society here. Oooh! Maybe I could get a phone. Or a puppy? Or…what else do people have? A therapist? A social security number?”

“How about a coat?” Ben suggested, as they rounded a corner and Klaus had to wrap his arms around himself to stop the wind from blowing his insides away.

“A coat,” he repeated, his lips pursed. Not as much fun as a puppy. Probably not as much use as a therapist. But definitely more immediately practical. “Yes. Alright. But it has to make my eyes look pretty. I’ll need your opinion, and I’ll know if you lie.”

He was still walking backwards. Not paying attention to where he was going. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Walking into the man was like walking into a brick wall, except the wall in question immediately grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him into an alley, throwing him up against another wall, a real one this time. His head bounced off the brickwork - oh, look; stars. In spite of the light pollution.

“ _Well, fuck me, speak of the devil.”_

“ _Nah, can’t be. You’re dreaming.”_

He blinked up into a vaguely familiar face that had too much eyebrows for its own good. “You were dreaming about me? I’m flattered. But I really must be going.” He tried to shove past them, wriggling his way past. There was…four of them? No, three, that was Ben, hovering at the little one’s shoulders, looking worried.

“Klaus,” he was hissing. “Klaus, that’s Shearer. From Sandy’s party, remember? The one Alec warned you about.”

Did he remember? He didn’t think he remembered, but Ben was better at remembering things. If he had been warned away then this hardly seemed fair – he didn’t think he’d even done anything. Ben would have told him if he’d done something, wouldn’t he? “What do they want?” Maybe he owed them money, or drugs, or...

“Number Four!”

Ice shot down his spine and he turned his head sharply. “Ooh, full name,” he mumbled. “Someone's in trouble.” It was him, he was in trouble. There were hands pressing against his chest and Shearer was grinning.

“I _told_ you. This little skank is Number Four Hargreeves, one of those Umbrella freaks from back when.” 

“Uh, maybe we should get out of here then? I mean if he's a superhero...” 

Shearer gave a derisory huff, and Klaus was inclined to agree, because he'd never been any sort of hero - a particularly useless child soldier, maybe, but there was nothing super about that. Still, spitting in his face was both rude and unnecessary. “He's not a superhero. He's a crack whore. His sister says so.” 

Sister? They had Vanya? Or Allison? No, no, no, no. “Where is she? What have you done?” He struggled against the hands holding him back, kicking out, and he might have the physique of a damp noodle, but hey, the whole child soldier thing had to leave him with  _some_ sort of muscle memory, and he heard a crack and a cry of pain, and Shearer fell back. 

“ _Run,_ ” Ben was yelling, and he did, or he tried, or he tried to try, but they were all around him, grabbing onto him and pulling him down, onto the street, into the dirt, and Shearer was back in his face with murder in his eyes, and he didn't even have time to brace himself before the back of his hand made contact with his cheek. Something else went crack. Crack like the whore. His sister says so.

“Sister?” he managed to say. “Let her go.” 

Shearer's expression shifted to one of delight. “Oh, fuck, you don't know,” he breathed. “Bit behind on the family gossip, are you, Number Four? Your little sister wrote a book. She told the whole world about you.” 

He had no idea what was going on anymore. He couldn't focus – couldn't see Ben. He could hear his voice, hear him calling his name, but there was a hand on the back of his neck, holding him still, and he couldn't turn to look. A book? What book? What sister? Vanya, had to be Vanya, right? She was the littlest. 

“Everyone's reading it. It was featured on Oprah, and your chapter is the best part. Everyone likes to read about the secret shames of the rich and famous.” 

Klaus giggled hysterically. “Do I look like I'm rich? I can barely afford French toast. I just want breakfast.” 

Shearer grabbed his chin and forced his head back, and it hurt, and he struggled. “Number Four, the tragic disappointment. Number Four, so desperate for Daddy's attention that he turned to sex and drugs, and sex-for-drugs. Number Four the whore.” He drew the words out, long and awful and cruel for cruelties sake, and for a moment, as the world blurred before him, Klaus thought he might be wearing a monocle. “Your sister says you'll sell your ass for a single hit. That true?” 

She said, she said...no, she wouldn't say that. Wouldn't. Couldn't. Even if it was true. Even if she knew it was true. Even if he was disgusting and disappointing, she wouldn't tell the whole world something like that. She was his sister. He loved her. She wouldn't. “Nonononono.” 

Shearer gasped like a dramatic bitch. “Are you calling your baby sister a liar?”

Not a baby, they were all the same age, that was the _point..._ but he was the liar, wasn't he? Not Vanya, never Vanya. She was always there, always watching, always judging, and she was _good._ Normal. Not like him, not a desperate junkie with a useless power. If she said he was worthless she was probably right. “No...” 

“So we've got a deal, then?” He rustled something in front of Klaus' face, leaning in so close that his breath was hot against his neck. “I've got some good shit here. Black tar. If your scrawny ass is only worth one hit, imagine what you're going to need to do for this.” 

Ben was shouting at him from somewhere far away. “ _Klaus, it's okay. You just need to get through this. We'll be alright, I promise.”_

He didn't want to listen anymore. There was dirt under his fingernails. He blinked up at Shearer.

A thumb gently wiped away the tears from his broken cheekbone. “Awww, don't cry, Number Four. You can call me Daddy if you like.”

*

There was a queue in the bookshop. He'd never really imagined that bookshops would have queues, did people really read anymore? Ben did, and Five had, but look what had happened to them.

Vanya was at the front of the queue. Or, rather, the queue stopped at Vanya, sitting behind a card table with a fixed and awkward smile as she signed copies of _Extra Ordinary_ for all her adoring public. Or, well, maybe not _her_ public, because there were quite a few cosplayers in the queue, and none of them were dressed up as Vanya. ( _Urgh, catty. None of them were dressed up as_ him _either, though one was dressed up as Six, with plushy tentacles bursting out of his Cthulhu t-shirt._ )

She looked...happy, maybe? Or as much as she ever did. She should be happy, she wasn't the one with forty-eight stitches and a face held together with elastoplast. Besides, she'd written a book, yay Vanya, that was something ticked off the old bucket list.

He should read it. He should find out what words she'd actually used to describe him. He should tell her he was sorry. At the very least he should talk to her.

She glanced over in his direction and he ducked behind a cardboard stand of Diego in his old costume. No. No, not today. This was her day and he wasn't going to ruin it for her.

“Go see her,” Ben urged.

He shook his head, conscious of the sales clerk giving him a suspicious look. “I don't want to make a scene.”

“Since when?”

The laughter bubbled up, almost choking him as he forced it away. “It's a new thing I'm trying. Come on. I need to see a Jesse about some heroin.” He started making his way back towards the street.

“Klaus...”

“Not now, Benny.”

“Klaus, _please_ don't do this.”

For a moment he stopped. For a moment he hesitated. Then he shrugged it off and hobbled away.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if you enjoyed this. I may or may not write more for the show.


End file.
